


The Warden's Shadow

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Books, Codex Entries, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Diary/Journal, M/M, Plot, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11972979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Had an idea that just kept sticking in my head as I was doing a replay recently. Thought I'd see where it could go.The Warden is a mysterious figure, and Zevran has decided he will investigate him, even if it means becoming the man's own shadow.





	The Warden's Shadow

The fire crackles softly, its light beginning to dim. The camp is quiet, the only sounds to be heard those of night-time creatures shuffling through leaves and jumping between the trees, and the occasional soft snore from the camps about them.

Through the open flap of her tent, Zevran can see Leliana’s pretty, peaceful features, illuminated by the fire; occasionally, he hears a quiet grunt or snore from the steadfast Sten; on the far side of camp, Morrigan’s own fire has gone dark, and he knows her to be sleeping too. Even Bodahn and Sandal have allowed themselves some rest, though Zevran could swear he hears the boy let out calls some nights, when the moon is full.

“He is sleeping, Alistair,” Zevran murmurs. Alistair jumps, looking up from the sock he is unsuccessfully attempting to darn. Morrigan had laughed in his face when Alistair has quietly asked if Morrigan had experience in such things, and he is a good deal too flustered to request such a favour from the Orlesian.

“What?” Alistair hisses. Zevran leans forwards, kneeling before the fire and adding more pieces of wood to the slowly smoking pile. Earlier in the evening, he had picked flowers and herbs, adding them in with the kindling in order to fill the camp with sweet smells, but now he smells only the fire itself.

(“T’is a _pleasantry_ ,” Morrigan had said to him, arching an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her lovely bosom. “But you know not what it means.”

“On the contrary, my _dear_ Morrigan,” Zevran had replied, “I know what it means. The Fade reaches even to Antiva.” Scoffing, she had turned, and walked away from him, but Zevran knows what herbs demons dislike, and what they _do_ like. He had learned much from the whores of Antiva City.)

“He is asleep. The Grey Warden.”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Alistair says, with the barest hint of a child’s wine, but as Zevran stares into his handsome features, he weakens. “You keep _asking_ me about him. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Zevran turns his head, looking at the tent that has been painted with pastes made of flowers and leaves, like that of a Dalish camp Zevran has never so much as imagined.

But Eston, Eston Nez – that is not a Dalish name. It is not an Antivan name, either, nor one Zevran has ever heard of in Ferelden, but he knows not from whence it comes. When Zevran had seen it written upon a journal, he had asked, “ _Nez_?” and said it like an Orlesian, but the other elf had given a very slight shake of his head, and corrected him: _Nez_ , with a _z_ sound one can hear.  

“He is a mage?” Zevran asks, ignoring Alistair’s own desperate question, and Alistair looks anxiously down at his sock. “ _Come_ , Alistair. You think I might kill him with such knowledge?”

“I don’t think so,” Alistair says, resignedly. “He fights with two blades, like you, doesn’t he?”

“You are a Templar, or were to be one,” Zevran retorts. “You feel the magic about him.” Alistair turns his head, pressing his lips together.

“This feels wrong,” he says. “I’m not gonna tell you anything else.” Zevran sighs. Alistair is an adult, of course, a princely figure of a fellow, but in interrogating him so, Zevran feels at times like he might interrogating a child. Alistair Theirin is, as yet, something of an innocent. The boy has yet to even _bed_ a woman (or a man).

“Give me that,” Zevran says, taking the needle and rethreading it with wool. Powerlessly, Alistair watches him darn his sock, and Zevran says no more.

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

The dawn is breaking. At the edge of camp, picking flowers and singing Orlesian songs, is Leliana; Sten follows her at a safe distance, keeping an eye on her safety and keeping an ear on her song.

Eston writes in his journal.

Morrigan’s shouts echo upon the wind, for Alistair has not cleaned a pot to her liking; in response, Alistair throws down a gauntlet, and Morrigan ignores the insult.

Eston writes in his journal.

Bodahn Feddic cheerfully says, “It’s a fine day for it!” as he packs up his tent upon his cart, ready for the day’s travel: they are making their way slowly to the Circle of Magi, now that they have finished their business in Lothering. They will have to backtrack to return to Redcliffe, and to the Brecilian Forest, but it matters little.

Eston writes in his journal.

“What is it you write there?” Zevran asks, curiously, sweetly. He is charming in the mornings, for the sun lights up his own handsome features: counting this day, he has been with the Grey Wardens for sixteen. Eston Nez’ handwriting is flowing and beautiful, but Zevran recognises neither the language nor the script, else he would have pilfered the journal at some time and read through it.

Eston looks up at him, straightening his lengthy spine. He is tall, for an elf.

Eston stands at six feet precisely, with a lightly muscled and willowy form; he carries his twin blades at his hips instead of on his back. His skin is a deep brown that is smooth and shines somewhat in the light, and his hair is sleek, shiny and white. It’s very long, Zevran has noted, and comes right down to Eston’s hips when he takes time to bathe, but he keeps it tightly bound in a bun over the nape of his neck, kept in place with a golden grip. He is passably handsome, Zevran thinks, but not remarkably so…

It is eyes that give Zevran pause.

Eston’s eyes are pale and silvery in colour, reminding Zevran of the liquid mercury he has seen used by some mages, but it is when one looks into them that one feels he must be a mage. If one looks for too long, one feels as if one is travelling to a world some time away, a city with tall, stone buildings, like those in the Tevinter Imperium. It is a spell like none Zevran has heard of, even if he never hears the man whisper an incantation.

“It’s a diary of sorts,” Eston says. His accent is unplaceable; his voice is so quiet it seems a waste, reminding Zevran of the librarians one finds in palaces or Circles: it is such a tragedy when pleasant voices are trained to be so very difficult to hear. “I write what I hear, what I see, what I learn.”

“You have a section for me?” Zevran asks, teasing. Eston’s smile is soft, but his tone is unnervingly resolute.

“Yes.”

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

“Is that it?” Leliana asks, surprisingly excitable. Zevran has been dancing with flirtation all day now, but she cares not at all for his talk of her beauty or grace; Zevran suspects she is tired of attention from men. “Is that the Circle?” Morrigan, her eyes dark and her expression serious, gives a single nod of her head.

They stand at the top of a hill, and below them, in the distance, the tower stands on an island on Lake Calenhad, its windows shining like a dozen beacons. Along the coast, small towns and villages cling to the water’s edge – how long, Zevran wonders, until the Darkspawn follow them here.

“We might make the Circle of Magi tonight,” Eston says. Zevran watches his face as he studies that of his companions: Sten and Morrigan complain not, but the uncertainty is plain in the faces of Leliana, of Alistair, and perhaps even Zevran’s own. Eston’s expression doesn’t change at all, but he immediately says, “I misspoke. Tomorrow morning, of course, we shall make our way out. Let us rest.”

Bodahn Feddic has made camp a hundred steps away from them: the boy, Sandal, has powers even Morrigan’s mother no doubt lacks. Zevran is not tired of walking as his fellows are, and when Eston makes his way over to Morrigan’s own encampment, Sten following in his wake, Zevran follows the pair of them, keeping himself to the shadows.

“T’is a fine night to approach such foolishness,” Morrigan says mildly, and Eston hands her a rabbit in response. “You don’t want _me_ in the Circle, I hope?”

“I would not ask it of you,” Eston says. “Alistair and I will make the journey; he has some Templar training. Leliana tells me she has heard of trouble some way up this road – not Darkspawn, I think, but perhaps some demon, a shade. Sten will lead the three of you.” Zevran watches Morrigan, sees her stretch her back, rolling her shoulders as she looks up at the Warden.

“Very well,” Morrigan says, looking over Eston’s shoulder, at Sten. She looks at him flirtatiously, desirously, but it is but an act, and Sten plainly does not care. Looking at him with his broad shoulders and his great horns, Zevran’s _own_ desire is false, as Morrigan’s may be. “

“And the assassin?” Morrigan makes eye contact with Zevran, hidden as he is between a few trees, but Zevran does not flinch, looking instead at Eston’s back.

“When he chooses to stop hiding in bushes and following my steps, I shall decide,” Eston replies, and Sten frowns, perplexed, before he turns. Zevran steps from the bushes, and Sten’s surprise is visible only in the very slightest widening of his purple eyes.

“Here I am, Grey Warden,” Zevran purrs. “Do with me as you will.” Eston looks at Zevran as if his flirtation is naught but a mild inconvenience. Zevran’s ambush had failed spectacularly, but even had he attempted stealth, he feels he could not have managed to land the killing blow. Eston hears everything, _knows_ everything that happens in his vicinity.

It is _most_ frustrating.

“You will accompany Alistair and I,” Eston says. “It will displease the Templars to see two elves with power over them, as opposed to only one.” Zevran narrows his eyes slightly. Eston’s sentiments are common amongst many elves, whether they be from the city or from a Dalish encampment, but they lack feeling, they lack the malice such words ought be accompanied with. Eston says them with the soft seriousness he says everything, as if the world has treated him in such a way he has never come to resent the treatment of his people.

“Yes, ser,” Zevran says, with his own insincerity. Eston smiles at him, and sincerity seems to pour from his very bones.

Morrigan keeps Sten with her, skinning her rabbit and speaking idly to him; with Zevran beside him, Eston walks back toward the main camp. Zevran watches Eston’s face, searching for some clue as to where he may be from, and he receives none.

“Do you miss Antiva, Zevran?” Eston asks, the question sudden and unprompted. Zevran considers his answer, tasting it for a few moments in his mouth before he allows it to fly free.

“Of course. When you walk the streets of Antiva City, the smell of boiling leather hits you in the face, you hear children laughing and people screaming in pain or in pleasure, the streets are so busy… Ferelden, yes, it has its charms… But for a foreigner such as me? They cannot compare.”

“I understand,” Eston agrees, and Zevran turns to glance at him. Eston does not meet Zevran’s gaze, but Zevran sees that it is on purpose, that he intentionally keeps his stare facing forwards.

“The Grey Warden, Duncan, took you from the road in the Brecilian forest, no? They were taking you to the Circle.”

“Yes,” Eston agrees.

“You are a mage?” Eston shrugs his shoulders. Zevran is unsure whether it means a lack of knowledge or a lack of concern, and his own ignorance frustrates him. “What? You do not know?”

“I see Morrigan with her staff… I am not like her,” Eston says. This is cryptic, and Zevran curls his lip slightly.

“You say this of her as if you have not seen such mages before. From where is it you come, Warden? A place without mages?” Eston sighs, the sound so suddenly melancholy that it strikes Zevran as if directly in the chest, and Zevran for a few moments is quiet. “I am— I am sorry. I do not wish to upset you.”

“It is of no matter, Zevran,” Eston says. “Sit with me for a time at the fire, please. Tell me of Antiva.”

To his credit, Eston gives Zevran his full attention that very night, and does not touch his strange journal at all.

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

“Wynne,” Eston says: Zevran does not think he imagines the way the woman flinches slightly, looking at Eston with apparent confusion, wonder… Perhaps fear? No. If it is fear, it is barely that. “I am glad to see you survived.”

“Thank you, Eston,” Wynne says. Zevran joins the conversation only to offer sarcastic interludes as Wynne questions Eston and Alistair both: she is a stern woman, unwavering and yet gentle, and immediately Zevran appreciates the warmth of her energy (and the roundness of her bosom). He wonders idly as to Morrigan, Sten and Leliana as they enter the Circle proper, and as to the Mabari, who had accompanied them.

“You are an assassin, then?” Wynne asks, mildly archly some hours later: Eston is insisting they stop to eat from the supplies he carries within his satchel, and as Eston walks about the room, looking through the books here in the apprentice dormitory and copying down relevant pages in his little journal, Zevran takes small bites of his unleavened bread.

He had watched Nez make it that very morning, fascinated at the process, and the sweetness of it surprises him.

“Indeed,” Zevran agrees cheerfully. “Just as Alistair is a Templar.”

“Shut up,” Alistair grumbles, eating as a man who has not eaten in days, with his mouth full and his brow deeply furrowed. After chewing and loudly swallowing, he says, “He _was_ an assassin. Apparently he’s given it up now, given that he’s not too great at it.” Zevran snorts, turning his head and watching.

Flicking open a folding knife, Eston brings the hilt down upon a padlock with surprising dexterity, and then he flicks open the cupboard. “You know, I can pick locks.”

“I can break them,” Eston replies serenely, his voice carrying through the high-ceilinged hall, and he takes out a few old books from the cupboard, frowning at them. Wynne presses her lips together, and again Zevran notes that ghost of caution that dances across her face. It is not _quite_ fear. “Eat, Zevran. You need your energy.”

“I am eating, I am eating!” Zevran takes a sip of water from the pouch at his side before eating some more of the bread, and not for the first time he wonders how it is Eston can survive on so very little to eat. He eats in the evening time, and will sometimes break the fast with whoever it is that wakes first, but that is all: as much as he pesters them to eat, he eats very little himself.

“You were being brought to the Circle, weren’t you, Eston?” Wynne asks. “Before Duncan found you.”

“The Templars that accompanied me were nearly all killed by Darkspawn,” Eston says distantly, uncaringly and casually: even Zevran sees the inappropriate nature of his tone, but the other elf does not care. “Duncan decided time was of the essence upon seeing me fight.” Zevran sees the slight change in Alistair’s face: to the boy, Duncan was something of a second father figure, Zevran can only guess, and Alistair seems to have loved him deeply.

“And your magic?” Wynne asks. “You feel you are in control of it?”

“I have yet to use any,” Eston says, his fingers following the text of a heavy book before he gently sets it aside. “But if we are to walk on together, Wynne, I will keep you updated.” Wynne’s silver brows knit together, showing her frustration: Zevran is most glad he is not quite alone. Alistair’s expression is quietly displeased, but Zevran thinks it is merely at the situation rather than at one individual. Eston stands, his light trousers clinging to the muscle of his legs, and he raises a hand for silence.

Zevran, Wynne and Alistair all go very still, each of them holding their breaths: Eston in the middle of the room, looks slowly upwards. Even with his elven hearing, Zevran does not believe he hears what Eston does, for Eston’s expression becomes deeply serious and shows the barest hint of uncertainty.

“What is it?” Alistair asks, after a moment.

“Upstairs,” Eston says quietly. “A stone statue has fallen: we must make haste. There are more shades above us; no doubt we shall encounter all manner of demon this day. Have you eaten your fill?” Zevran stands up immediately, ready to continue onwards, and Wynne and Alistair follow in his wake.

When they see the Tranquil up the stairs, Zevran hangs back: the Tranquil remind him of those in Antiva who see fit to fill themselves with powerful drugs, who drink themselves into stupors each and every night. Eston, however, shows no fear, reaching out and taking the Tranquil by his hands to speak to him.

“Owain…” Wynne says, rushing forwards to speak with them. Owain’s hands, which are calloused and well-worked, are still in Eston’s own. Eston has broad palms but long, slender fingers, and Owain sways slightly, seemingly hypnotized by the touch. “Owain, are you okay?”

“I am unharmed, Wynne. I must speak to you. The Circle’s troubles stem from blood mages.” Zevran frowns slightly at the Tranquil’s slow, calm tones, but he weighs their importance by Wynne’s features: according to her face, the situation is quite serious.

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

It takes several days to work their way through the tower’s few floors, so full are they with demons and shades; as they go, Eston makes notes upon notes in his journal, but at the very least, they sleep in beds as opposed to sleeping bags. It is tiring, fighting their way through, cutting down line after line of encroaching demons…

But the work is important, and if not for Eston Nez, Zevran would not be here.

But the Sloth Demon surprises even he.

He feels himself trapped in a strange, Fade-world, strapped upon a rack as he goes through his Crow training eternally, eternally: he is tied in his place, and they hurt him oh, how they hurt him! But he must not scream, must not scream or hiss or cry, for if he does so, he will fail.

What would he be if he were not a Crow? What will he be if he does not become a Crow? What of life, and what of death, when pain is all he can think of?

But then Zevran is waking, blearily sprawled upon the floor… the Sloth demon had put them all to sleep, and yet there Eston is, standing upon his feet, ripping into the Sloth demon with his blades. And all the while, the Sloth demon is screaming, screaming!

“What are you? What **ARE** you? What are you?”

Until Eston has ripped it all apart.

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

The figure of Cullen displeases Zevran: he finds that he dislikes Templars, even though he does not necessarily trust every mage, but Cullen cuts an unpleasant figure. He strikes Zevran as weak and lacking something of a fortitude, and his willingness to kill every mage in the Tower, even though they have saved so many so far… It disgusts him.

“Of course you’d side with them,” Cullen spits, curling his lips. “Well, on your head be it— Apostate, aren’t you?”

“You mean as little to me, Cullen, as the rats that run beneath this building’s cellars,” Eston says coldly, and the suddenness of his comment makes all three of them turn to him with surprise. Eston pushes the Templar away, and they walk toward the stairs.

“This leads to the Harrowing Chamber,” Wynne says quietly. “It’s where we train mages. Eston, what you said to Cullen… Do you truly hate Templars so much?” There is a little fear in her eyes, now: like Zevran, she is thinking about the fear of the Sloth demon, how it had screamed as Eston had cut it.

“I know nothing of Templars, but for that which Alistair has taught me,” Eston says. It is by no means unconvincing. Where Sten comes from, they have no Templars and no mages: there is only the Qun, and there are only saarebas. Zevran picks up more of his language than Sten thinks, he suspects. “It is such an uncaring attitude to murder that causes me to “hate”, as you call it.”

Eston pulls upon the door, and the four of them step up into the next chamber, leaving Cullen to cower behind them.

**▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻ ♛ ▻** **THE WARDEN’S SHADOW ◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅** **♛** **◅**

“Do you sleep?” Zevran demands. Wynne is walking with Alistair, far ahead of them on the path.

“Sometimes,” Eston says. Zevran grabs the other elf, pulls him to face him: Eston is much taller than him, and looks right into Zevran’s eyes, but Zevran forces himself to imagine he does not mind either. “You wish to ask me why it is that the Sloth demon did not force me to the Fade.”

“Yes,” Zevran whispers.

“Then ask.”

“Why?” Eston is quiet, tilting his head a fraction to the side. He is more than passably handsome, Zevran supposes, but the thought is idle, and he does not allow it to dominate the forefront of his mind.

“I come from a place far from here,” Eston murmurs. Because of the way Zevran has hold of him, he murmurs it against Zevran’s mouth; he is close enough that Zevran can feel the ghost of his breath. “There are no mages, no Templars…”

“No Fade? But how can that be so? The Fade, it is everywhere.”

“Look to the sky,” Eston says. Midnight is soon approaching, but their encampment is but an hour’s walk away. Zevran looks, and sees only the moon. “Only one moon – and yet I know there are two by the night! By the day, I see no moons at all, and yet I know there ought be one laying a path for the sun to follow.”

“Three moons? You are crazy.”

“I am a foreigner,” Eston replies. “Ferelden cannot compare.” Zevran feels his hand trace from Eston’s shoulder to the side of his neck, tracing the smooth, brown skin beneath his fingers; Eston’s skin is so much darker than his own, and in the dim light of the evening, the contrast seems all the more apparent.

He can feel Eston’s pulse beneath his thumb; the beat is slow and steady and strong. Zevran feels a distant excitement, like the excitement one feels when trespassing in a graveyard, or an ancient shrine. Touching this man’s skin is not unlike treading on hallowed ground, and he wonders vaguely what Owain the Tranquil had felt when Eston had touched him.

“So when you sleep… What is it you dream of?”

“I do not dream,” Eston says. If the placement of Zevran’s hands unnerves him, he does not say so. “Zevran, where I come from there are elves, as we; there are men, as Alistair, as Wynne. Mages, as you have, I have never seen.”

“How did you come to Ferelden?” Zevran asks, softly; he is surprised at how very soft his voice is.

“Templars found me on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest,” Eston says. It is not the answer to the question Zevran asked, but Zevran is not surprised.

“You didn’t mention dwarves,” Zevran says, and Eston frowns, his nose wrinkling.

“Dwarves?” he repeats. “Small men, yes?”

“No,” Zevran says, slowly. He stares at this man’s face, looking for some sense of jest, but he sees none at all. “Dwarves are as humans and elves are to each other – or more like you, actually. They don’t go to the Fade. They cannot do magic. Can— _can_ you do magic?” Eston turns his head, looking to Wynne and Alistair: they are in the distance, talking to each other.

Eston flicks his wrist, and from between his fingers, as if sprouting from the ground at speed, grows a lily. Zevran stares at it, his mouth slightly open: he knows little of the schools of magic, but he knows that incantations for spells are complicated, and that had seemed anything _but_.

Pressing the flower slowly into Zevran’s own hand, Eston makes as if to pull away, but Zevran’s grip tightens on his neck, pulling him closer: before Eston can open his mouth to make an inquiry, Zevran pulls him closer, pressing his mouth to the other elf’s. He kisses as he kisses anybody, with passion, with charm, and Eston’s mouth is like a mirror to his own, perfectly matching the movements of his tongue and his lips.

When Zevran finally pulls away, he has one hand lingering on Eston’s jaw, the other holding the flower between his fingers.

“Um, guys?” Alistair calls down the path. Even from here, Zevran can hear his _horror_ at seeing his fellows engaged in a kiss – the sort of thing Zevran has no doubt he has never experienced for himself. “Sorry if you’re, uh, busy, but shouldn’t we be making our way back to camp?”

“Indeed,” Eston says, and he takes Zevran by the hand, leading him with him…

For reasons Zevran is uncertain of, he allows it.


End file.
